Soapsuds
by bwilbur
Summary: A Leppal (LeblancGippal), the first of FF.net I believe. Leblanc's musings leave her drunk yet again. Does Gippal care? Of course not. Whoever said opposites attract are dead wrong.


**Soapsuds **by** Bad Wilbur**

**Author's Note**:Wee, summer. Well, this gives me a perfect opportunity to begin a new project that (hopefully) will NOT be abandoned in between the void space also known as my life. (well, we all know it's probably not going to happen. Making promises with myself isn't exactly my thing) As of now, finishing and writing this story is my number one priority. I've never ever finished a fanfic duly, so you're witnessing history in the making. Fear!

I'm pretty sure you can figure out the pairing by the end of this chapter (if you haven't figured out from the summary already). Just to avoid any confusion – this is post-Shuyin. Have fun.

Leblanc's eyes were glazed over. She heedlessly looked around, attempting to take in her surroundings, but nothing apprehended. Blurs of dark hues of gray and purple danced in her eyes, giving Leblanc a headache. She was _dizzy_. She let out a confused, yet strident yell of dissatisfaction, followed by a sudden yawn.

"I… tiiiiired…" she droned, falling back in her seat, running her fingers through the roots of her dirty blonde hair. There was no response, but Leblanc didn't care. She continued murmuring audibly.

"It… it… is… cold!" Leblanc exclaimed, squinting around to try to focus her eyesight. "I _hate_ cold!" she assured blatantly to herself.

It was true though. Leblanc hated cold weather – it was a well-known fact to any given Syndicate member… or anyone that gave Leblanc time to start flapping her gums. It just wasn't the signature Leblanc way to gripe about nothing – she always had a reason. Good reasons were few and far, but to her, anything convenient was considered good. Life, as we _all_ know, is _all_ about self satisfaction. Duh.

Leblanc slowly began regaining her composure. The blurs of dull color sharpened into rough textures of cement walls that were painted an ugly shade of puce. The only other source of contrasting color was from the wooden bookshelf behind the cement counter, which was a novel hue of maroon, all decorated and adorned with bottles of aged whiskey and gin.

So she had gotten drunk. Again.

"Damn," she slurred. The air was crisp, but smelled of an odd musk. She could tell she was in a rathskeller by the chilliness and darkness of the tavern. Music was playing lightly in a lulling fashion in the background, and the low muttering from other conversations carried out a pleasant, yet foreign aura through the tavern. Leblanc smiled stupidly to herself, although it was noticeable to anyone who took the briefest of glances at her.

_Wow, how did I find a place like this? Where in Spira can you find a place to get a goddamn piece of mind? I… I love it! I—_

Any further illustrations of the perfections of such a tainted place, however, were interrupted by the sudden, swift change of music coming from the jukebox. The light, yet slow jazz rhythms burned into a sickening thick layer of string instruments. There was a sudden, loud uproar through the whole tavern as everyone recognized the song. Leblanc flinched at their reactions, and slowly turned toward the jukebox. Several men (as there weren't any other women besides Leblanc herself in the tavern) were crowded around it, prepared and eager to chorus along with the lyricist of the recording. Not any old lyricist, but one that Leblanc _loathed_. Leblanc shook her head in disgust.

"I hate this song!" she proclaimed bravely. Many – but not all – of the men looked back toward her, a look of pity in their eyes. One man looked like he was about to retort to her comment, but was interrupted as the vocals in the song kicked in. The men started singing (or, more accurately, trying their best to do so), slurring and mumbling at spots where they didn't know the exact lyrics. Most got the gist of it and sang along valiantly; spare the drunk, who only echoed to the vocals during the insanely familiar chorus of the aria.

Leblanc was disappointed at the attention (or lack of thereof) she received, and prepared herself to saying something totally uncalled for – something _repulsive_. Something like…

"YUNA IS AN UGLY WHORE!"

The same man who was going to make a comment at Leblanc's first endeavor at attention looked back, and stared at Leblanc quizzically.

"Who the helliiiiiiiiiis Yooonuh?" he said. Leblanc just glared. Stupid man. Hell, all men were stupid. All they do (according to Leblanc) is drink and masturbate. Leblanc, feeling a bit edgy, however, did respond to his question.

"Yuna is the ugly little twit who's singing right now. My god, why does Yuna had to bastardize Spira with both her music AND publicity stunts? What a hoser!" Indeed, the song was from the Thunder Plains concert - dubbed 'Yunapalooza' - and instantly became a hit in Spira. Leblanc privately admitted to herself that she did like the song, but the fact that the head of the 'Dullwings' was the mastermind behind the song gave Leblanc a good reason to hate it anyway.

Well, maybe that's _not_ a _good_ reason. But whatever.

"You unno what're talkin' about, yessum!" the man replied, waving his fist in the air. Leblanc could barely distinguish his voice from outside of the loud singing. She was about to ask the man to repeat himself, but Leblanc realized it would have sounded stupid.

"Ughh!" Leblanc moaned in discomfort. "Men like you make the world hell for us women!" she growled.

"Now wait just a damn minute."

Unlike most other voices in the tavern at that moment, this voice was really clear to Leblanc. And it was familiar, but Leblanc couldn't put her finger on who's voice it was. Baralai? Tidus? Buddy? Refusing to take a guess to find that she was wrong, Leblanc turned around, and smiled amiably at her confronter.

"GIPPAL! I knew it was you, love..." Leblanc greeted deferentially.

"Really," Gippal took the stool next to Leblanc, and wheeled it toward her. "Hm. Well, hey. I'm surprised to find you here, of all people." She stared. "… hey, I was kidding. You naughty girl."

"Shut up," Leblanc, who was obviously a frequent victim of moodswings, retreated back to her bitchiness she exhibited among the singing men. The last person she wanted to talk to when she was drunk was Gippal – he could probably successfully coax her into being his special toy for a night.

Gippal smiled slightly in offense. "Whoa-ho-ho… don't get so bitchy! I—"

"Gippal!" Leblanc interrupted in annoyance. "Do you have anything better to do than… than… stalk me and trying to flirt with me? You think you're a ladies' man – but you're the exact opposite!"

This effectively shut Gippal up. Gippal took a bottle from the bar countertop, and took a swig from it. Leblanc sneered.

"Men get drunk because they think their lives suck, just because they can't get women. Did it occur to them… did it occur to you that you're not suitable for …uh, any woman? You – you…" Leblanc was about to make a valid point, but her brain, maligned by the acidic effects of alcohol, failed her again, and Leblanc was left there all alone, thinking up an authentic insult to shoot at Gippal.

Gippal sighed – he heard enough from Leblanc to be affronted. Gippal drained what was remaining from his beverage, and then threw the bottle aside. Leblanc smiled victoriously, her arms folded proudly over her chest, inadvertently giving Gippal one less spot to peer at mindlessly.

"What's wrong, Leblanc?" Gippal had suddenly asked. His voice didn't have the cool mien it was usually sugared with – he sounded the least bit concerned for her wellbeing. This took Leblanc by surprise, and softened her up. Leblanc was trying to think up a collected and placid response to his question before he inquired her again. "Does this have anything to do with… Noojie-woojie?"

Leblanc was still disarmed by his sudden concern – right up to the point before Leblanc's ears met up with that dreaded pet name that she herself (now ruefully) coined. Gippal's voice, up until after that point aswell, had crescendoed back into that damned, sanguine tone of his that Leblanc suddenly (and instantly) hated. Shocked by the unexpected turn of conversation, Leblanc shakily stood up and pointed at Gippal menancingly.

"How dare you mention that … that… IDIOT……… how dare you mention t-that idiot in front of me! Never muh-mention that damned name in front of me AGAIN! And if you wanted to know, NO! That… that… _Nooj_ plays NO part in MY life – surely he can't upset me! That luhhh-owlife can't effect _anyone's_ life, unless it's one of those deee-amned, moronic, brainwashed Youth Leaguers!"

Leblanc would have probably continued tirading away if it wasn't for the sudden silence that permeated the still air of the rathskeller. Yuna's song was loud and clearly audible over the silence.

But not loud enough for Leblanc to think that there was nothing wrong.

It then dawned on Leblanc that, _yes_, the club was full of Youth League members, clad in penknives and other things that poke. And in some cases, those firey-guns they pilfered from New Yevon when Baralai went missing. Ever since Nooj first had gone missing, Leblanc knew that the Youth League soldiers were restless and were thirsty for blood. Even though Nooj was alive and well, now sitting somewhere in Mushroom Rock, he still hadn't been able to achieve full control over the soldiers. Not that Nooj would have spared Leblanc's ass.

Shit. Shit! Shitshitshitshitshit.

"Care ter repeat yerself, mizzus?" a man said intimidatingly, running his fingers on the surface of the hilt of his blade.

If there was one thing that Leblanc hated more than cold weather, it was making herself look cowardly and stupid. Needless to say, this often made Leblanc dissatisfied, but Leblanc mustered enough stupidity this time around to 'defend herself.'

"Yes. I said that… Nooji—I mean, _Nooj _is a douchebag, and you riffraffs are nothing but useless little fucks. Yes… all you Youth League members are-fucking-usless-and-dumb-you-fucking-LOVES!"

Gippal, who was probably the most sober of anyone in the tavern, cursed loudly during the period of time the men took to fully comprehend Leblanc's lament. Leblanc was surely going to get killed – and in the midst of the chaos, Gippal and several innocent bystanders _would surely_ fall victim to the Youth League. With few options to spare his sorry ass (and _no_ smart pathways to choose), Gippal swiftly took out his weapon – something that resembled a high-tech paintball machine, tinged in zany colors not unlike the colors ordained on Gippal's outlandish outfit – and fired. He took Leblanc by the hand and _ran_ out of the tavern, accelerating into the damp and debased streets of Luca, _literally_ dragging a drunken Leblanc along, still utterly dazed and confused by the sudden turn of events.

**Closing Notes**: Yea, this is a horrible place to end a chapter, but I just had to get this out – I'm proud of it, to say the least.

I'm dedicating this story to a friend of mine. Further details may be disclosed in future chapters, maybe.


End file.
